


Exit Interview

by honestys_easy



Category: Music RPF, Real Person Fiction, Tulsa Gangstas
Genre: BDSM, Dubious Consent, Humiliation, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-01
Updated: 2011-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-05 02:42:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honestys_easy/pseuds/honestys_easy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal can't leave the band without paying his penalty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exit Interview

**Author's Note:**

  * For [loves_anodyne (machka)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/machka/gifts).



> This is...definitely not what I usually write, ha. A Twitter conversation led to the concept of gang initiations and exits, where you have to be "jumped in" and "jumped out." I started musing on the same idea for the Anthemic, but with a...different kind of jumping. lol. It's both conceptually and stylistically different from what I usually write, and I don't plan to post this publicly, so it's just for my flist to read for now. It is definitely not my usual happy, light, fluffy sexy Skibmann. Also, related note, but I suck at writing BDSM, so I shouldn't really try. :P But once I got to writing this story, I just couldn't stop.

The first thing Andy says when he enters your room is that he loves you. Not the way he says it to Jennie, still with the innocent excitement of a schoolboy crush; or even the way you say it to Kira, low and sultry, a dark, lustful promise. It’s in lieu of him being able to say he’s sorry, a word David probably exorcised from his vocabulary for this night. Andy’s “I love you” is a reminder, and a warning.

You’d ask if his obvious affection could make him stop what he’s about to do, but you can see in his eyes that it won’t.

“Nothing personal, right,” you snort, derisive, like you think you can actually talk yourself out of it, like you didn’t know this was coming. “It’s all business, now.”

They were all fine with it last Monday, when you gave what amounts in the musician’s world as your two-week notice. Hell, David even slapped you on the back to get you gone, laughing in the way that he does, eyes alight and uncalculating. Perhaps you should have known it wouldn’t be that easy to leave.

Andy closes the door behind him with a _click_ as you turn to the table and the bottle of Jack waiting like a dutiful friend, or a persistent enemy. “I think it’s a little bit of both, for him,” he says; you don’t even need to look at him to pick up on the sadness in his voice.

 _Fuck that_ , you think, and you wince when you realize you mistakenly said that aloud. Thankfully it’s only Andy who hears you, he’s the only one in the room, and the cock of his head tells you he won’t judge. He looks past you to the whiskey bottle and sees a fistful of the liquor’s already gone; he doesn’t judge you for that, either.

“We’ve broken up before,” you argue hollowly, like you’re speaking lines from a script, a play where you and Andy are merely actors and David’s running the show. It’s bittersweet on your tongue. “Gone and done our own shit. Fuck, he went off to L.A. without us.” Like the seeds of a dandelion you three flew, scattered to the winds all across the country: David in California, you in New York, Andy holding his own in Tulsa. But back then, years ago, David made it big, made some TV show, and made the call, and you packed up your New York shit and came running. He was grateful.

You’re not running to him now, and you think it’s finally gotten to him.

“This is different,” Andy confirms your suspicions as you grab the bottle by the neck and turn it over into one shot glass, then another. Leaving town hasn’t made you a shitty host. “This isn’t just about us anymore.”

Again you snort your disapproval, because Andy’s right, for all the wrong reasons. It’s only about _him_ now, but even you’re not stupid or drunk enough to voice it out loud. “Why didn’t he come himself,” you ask instead; Andy bristles, startled, like you don’t want him there. Like you would have _preferred_ if David did this to your face. “If he’s so broken up about it.”

Andy pauses; you’ve known him long enough to tell he’s trying to find the right words in his head. Something that’ll make it hurt less. “He’s...busy,” he says hesitantly. He’s awkward about it, nervously scratching at his elbows, eyes to the floor. Andy hates being the messenger. “Showing new guy the ropes.”

“Thought heartthrob preferred showing the _handcuffs_ instead.”

You don’t mean it as a joke, and aptly Andy doesn’t take it as one. He’s silent, but for his steady breathing and his apologetic puppy eyes. You want to fight back, snarl, ask him when’d he get to be David Cook’s errand boy, doing your friend’s dirty work for him. But with what you know Andy’s been charged to do, what he’s supposed to take from his best friend, you know anything you say will just make his heart all the more broken.

You both know what must happen now, the penalty for leaving the band. A punishment for a brotherhood contract broken.

He tries to make himself more comfortable, toeing off his sneakers and hanging his jacket onto the back of a chair. But it just makes him seem more anxious, biting his lip like the shy young teenager you met all those years ago. You hand him one of the shot glasses, taking the other one up for yourself, wondering if you’ll need more than one to endure the night. You quickly remember those insecure nights changing clothes on the tour bus, spying Andy’s muscular thighs in silhouette, the folds of his boxers not quite hiding the girth between his legs. Maybe you do need to get hammered before this, after all.

You hold out the glass for a bitter toast. “Fucked in, fucked out,” you say. Andy reluctantly touches his glass to yours, wishing you’d dedicate your last drink together to something else. “To our sick fuck of a boss.”

“I wish it didn’t have to be this way,” he almost whispers, quick to get the words out, like David’s got the room bugged. He brings the whiskey to his lips and tips his head back, the alcohol running down the back of his throat, neck muscles flexing and contracting as he swallows it down. His eyes are squeezed tight but you’ve got a feeling it’s not over the sting of the whiskey.

“Wish in one hand, shit in the other...” You find yourself watching him before you lazily bring the glass to your own lips, prolonging your talk, this friendly little chat that’s dancing around that big fucking elephant between you. But despite yourself you sigh, your conscience getting the better of you. No need to vent your frustrations out on Andy; he is, after all, just the messenger. “I shouldn’t be mad at you,” you admit, the shot glass only inches from your face. “I know this ain’t your call.” You sigh, eyes closing in resignation, as you open your mouth and drink, the liquid burning hot past your teeth, down the back of your throat and settling into your stomach. You take it slow--it’s probably the least pain you’ll feel tonight.

Andy’s eyes are still on you when you take the shot, big and round, almost penitential. “I love you, Neal,” he says again, and you feel his hand on your shoulder, reassuring you, supporting you.

It’s then you realize David didn’t just send Andy to do his dirty work because he was busy: he did this because you two are so close, known each other for so long. It hurts less for you knowing it comes from someone who cares. But at the same time, it’ll hurt like a fucking dagger to the gut for Andy.

You’re about to share your realization, opening your mouth and getting out at least a syllable or two, when Andy invades your space forcefully and presses his lips against yours. This ain’t about the kiss, you figure, he’s not romancing you or taking you to the goddamned prom. His tongue swipes against your lower lip, catching the remnants of the liquor from your whiskered beard. Then his teeth follow, biting so hard and suddenly against your piercings that you gasp, loosening your grip on the glass, and it falls dully to the floor.

Andy’s not gentle, as you expected, and you bet with odds you could take to Vegas that he never kisses Jennie this way. Possessive and rough, he attacks your mouth with his, past your lips, teeth clinking against teeth. He catches your lip between his teeth and pulls, teasing out a gasp you don’t even realize you make until it reaches your ears. You’re so focused on his kiss, all force and sex, not even the thinnest trace of lust like you’re used to, that you don’t notice Andy crowding up around you until he’s pushed you against the table, with no room to move.

The table’s hard ridge digs into the small of your back, and you’re gasping again, gripping the edge with both hands on instinct. It startles you but Andy’s not stopping for anything, tongue darting in between your lips, possessing your mouth, claiming it. His body’s flush against yours, his leg bent up in between yours, wasting no time. The silly games of courtship lovers play are irrelevant to you both. This isn’t about connection, or attraction, and it sure as hell ain’t about love.

It’s power, pure and simple, and clear to you as day as Andy bends you back even more, clamping a hand down on each of your wrists. You had power, and now you’ve rescinded it; Andy’s ordered to take it from you, body and soul. In this--in the way his hands tremble just the slightest bit as he grips your wrists tight, how his eyes are closed so he doesn’t have to look into yours--Andy’s just as powerless as you.

He tugs at your hands, spreading them apart on the edge of the table, until each palm is gripping a corner, the layers of particleboard digging into your skin. You feel the strain as Andy arches your back, your elbows locked, a position impossible to hold.

He breaks the kiss and opens his eyes, finally looking into yours, and you guess that’s what he’s wanted all along.

There’s still regret in those eyes, the unspoken apology you saw the minute he walked into the room, but it’s as hidden as those tiny spots of green among the muddy, thick brown of his iris; you can only see it if you know it’s there. It’s replaced with the dark power of lust, the frenzied, glorious look of a man let loose with no restrictions, no repercussions. You won’t retaliate against him, no matter what he does, how deep he cuts or how much it’ll hurt. You know you’ve got this coming to you.

One of his hands moves to your chest, running along the fabric of your shirt as he takes the buttons one by one; the other tangles into your hair, longer now than his, less suitable for his image. He’s confident enough you’ll stay where you’re told that he doesn’t feel the need to hold your wrists to the table. It’s a level of trust Andy probably shouldn’t give you, especially in a situation like this, but you’re grateful for it nonetheless.

Tucking his head low into the crook of your neck, he begins to kiss you there, his tongue and teeth running along the lines of your tattoo. It’s like Andy knows the pleasure points of your body before he’s ever touched you: involuntarily you tip your head back, a moan escaping your lips. Your knuckles are white against the table: you want to reach out, touch him, pull him closer, but you don’t dare.

“If this is my punishment,” you make out, your eyes drifting closed as Andy runs his hand along your exposed chest, long, agile fingers pressing into your skin. “Then fucking lay it on me, Skib.”

He stops, his face resting against your neck, and you regret having said fucking anything because he’s _stopped_ and you’re surprised at how much you hope he starts again. But his breathing is even against your neck, hot and thick like the lit air on a stage; he’s thinking, contemplating, and as he does the hand along your chest gentles against your waist, almost a caress. He’s playing on thin ice and you both know it.

“He wants to know this hurt,” he murmurs into your skin, the low tone bouncing off your bones and coming to rest in the pit of your stomach. “He wants to see bruises.”

To prove his point Andy suddenly bites down hard on a pulse, the blood rushing up to the surface of your tender flesh. The pain shoots through your senses but it’s thrilling, your back arching out of instinct, exposing your neck to him even more. Of course this was David’s caveat: he sent Andy in to do all the work, dole out the punishment, be the one to get his hands dirty with your sweat and your shame; but he wanted to make sure the deed was still done. It figures that David wouldn’t let you leave the band without a souvenir or two.

Through the moans and the straining erection in your pants making it difficult to think of _anything_ else, you manage to speak, the hitch in your breath noticed by his lips on your throat. “But what do you want?”

He stops; pulls away. You curse yourself again for ruining the moment--as fucked up as that moment was--but then he looks into your eyes, catches them quick and deep, confidently not looking away. David certainly hadn’t asked him such a question before sending him on his way; you doubt if even Andy asked himself. You can tell it means something to him that it came from you.

Then, slowly and softly, he comes in for a kiss. As emotionless and rough as his first kiss was, this is the opposite: soft and breathy, he delicately brushes his lips against yours, neck craning to account for your height, his eyes fluttering closed. Yours close as well, a swell of strange emotion rising in you, a sharp, sudden desire to wrap your arms around him, thank him for this kindness.

It’s his answer but it’s a short one, one he can’t indulge for long. He breaks away, reluctant to stop kissing you, touching you, closing in one last peck for good measure. With your eyes still closed and reeling you don’t look at his face, you don’t see how much and how long he wanted that kiss.

Even when Andy steps away to take in what he’s done to you, you’re still clutching the table at either end, your pants painfully tight, reeling from the mix of force and affection in such a short time. You’re barely able to see when you open your eyes, lids heavy with lust, your irises probably shot to shit. The look on Andy’s face isn’t apologetic anymore, his penitence for what he is about to do completely gone. Now he’s back to business.

“Down on your knees,” he orders, his voice even and calm, but still you feel compelled to oblige.

Finally loosening your grip, you sink down to your knees on the carpet, gritting your teeth in discomfort as your cock strains against the zipper of your jeans. You want to pulse your hips, press a fist against that bulge and let loose, but you know it wouldn’t be allowed. Fuck, you can’t even ask if Andy could bridge that gap between you two and do it himself--and it’s making your mind reel to realize that’s exactly what you want at this moment--because this night isn’t about taking your pleasure, it’s the very opposite.

Andy watches but his face is expressionless, and takes more than a moment to react, leisurely drinking in the sight of you. You want to be self-conscious, to shirk away from the punishment you’re about to receive, but you can’t because this is _Andy_ , you’ve known him almost since his fucking balls dropped, and now he’s advancing on you with a tent in his pants and you know that _you’re_ the reason it’s there.

He crowds you in, invades your space in a way that makes you shudder. His toes up against your knees, barely an inch between you, the cold metal of his belt buckle glancing against the tip of your nose. Your eyes close, trying not to moan, as you contemplate what he might do to you with that belt.

But then a sure, steady hand weaves its way through your hair, Andy’s thumb caressing your temple before it goes to the back of your neck, fingers digging in. There’s a tug there and suddenly your face is up against the crotch of his jeans, mouth against the outline of a hard cock through the faded black denim, and this time you don’t even try to fight the moan escaping your lips. You mouth around it like a desperate man, feeling the pressure of Andy’s hand at your neck and the tiny pulse of his hips into you; you’re not the only one desperate for this.

“Andy...” you moan, muffled against his cock, and he makes a noise above you that sounds like he’s breaking.

You’re about to gnaw a goddamn hole through those jeans when he slackens his grip on your neck, pulling on the hairs at the nape, the stings sharp against your scalp. “Take it,” he says, his voice a raspy whisper, and you can tell from the tone he’s been panting in breaths ever since he touched you.

There’s nothing you can do but comply. With a throaty groan you reach forward, one hand cupping against the erection still trapped in Andy’s jeans while the other methodically unhooks the belt’s tongue and frees it from the buckle. The fly on his pants is next: your fingers creep up to the waistband and brush against the skin underneath, toned yet soft as calf leather, covered with a downy layer of familiar dark hair. Andy hisses sharply at your touch, followed by a moan; he’s slowly unraveling, either from the desire or the power you can’t tell. He’s got about as much experience with this as you, and never with each other. He’s working hard not to let himself be overwhelmed, because you both know David won’t accept failure.

Soon the button is conquered, the zipper attacked tooth by metal tooth, and you’ve got both your hands on either side of his slim hips, feeling the tension in his muscles as you slide down the fabric, jeans and underwear. You pull them down only below his ass before you’re distracted, your palms running along the exposed skin of his ass, watching with undivided attention as his cock emerges out from the jeans. Those shadows you spied on the tour bus are nothing compared to the genuine article; “distracted” is fucking right.

The scent of his arousal hits you, heady and thick, and you let out a shuddering breath, suddenly incensed with desire, your body nearly overcome from it. A thick patch of dark, coarse hair runs from underneath his t-shirt to the base of his cock, standing at full attention and twitching--oh dear God it’s _twitching_ \--from the feel of your hot breath hitting his flesh. You want to take him, bury your face in that scent, pull him down to your level so you can kiss him proper; but you know the boundaries you can push, what can press at the line of this punishment before it breaks. Maybe _this_ is David’s idea of retribution against you: being so hard and unsatisfied it hurts, so close to Andy, feeling him all around you and not being allowed to take and touch as you will.

But you quickly forget about the punishment, why Andy is here in the first place, getting lost in the lust the moment provides. With your eyes intently on his cock before you, your hand runs along the curve of his hipbone to the base, its heat burned into your skin. Just the slightest touch, a press on the pads of your fingertips, you travel along its length, feeling it tremble along with its owner, who’s nearly keening with self-control. You feel his pulse, steady but rising, and as you reach the head a slippery pearl of precome has pooled at the tip, coating your fingertips and marking them with his scent.

Reluctant to ever stop touching him, you bring your hand ever more northward, watching your own inked fingers as they mingle with the hair along his body. You tear your eyes away and look up at Andy’s face, into his eyes: his head’s bent down, neck craning, chin already smashed down against his chest. His eyes are as wide as his lust will allow them, taking every sight and movement in, drinking in the vision of you before him on your knees. You don’t know how long he’s been watching like this, but with the hunger you see in his eyes, you bet it’s been ever since he ordered you down there.

Your hand creeps up his body inch by inch, running over his belly, up underneath his shirt. It’s a stare you can’t break, and the air’s gotten so thick between you two, you don’t even know how you’re able to breathe.

“What do you want,” you ask again, throwing penitence to the wind. If you act long enough like this encounter was natural, that all Andy’s intentions were to please and be pleased by you, then maybe, somewhere in that room, it might come true. Andy’s eyes are a mix of shock and desire, like a poor deer caught in the headlights of his own emotions. They widen as you reach out with your tongue, following the long, slow line where your fingers ran, tracing along the underside of his cock. You almost swear the groan coming from Andy originates in his gut and not his throat, it’s that deep, that needy and close. “Anything, Andy, I’ll do it.” His breath is coming in heaving pants, you can feel it in his chest. You want to take him into your mouth the second your lips hit his crown, but you stop yourself; not yet, not until he asks for it. “Tell me...”

He makes a noise in his throat, it’s in between a gasp and a sigh, and that should tell you everything you need to know, but you’re still crouching there with your mouth so close to being around his cock but not so you’re fucking clueless. For a moment even his eyes are unreadable, the eyes you’ve known for over a decade but never quite like this, dark and needy, all over the fucking map. The fingers tighten at your neck and you think he wants to pull you back up to your feet, throw this penance shit out the goddamn window, and kiss you without David’s orders bitter on his tongue.

But his eyes narrow, a hard coldness seeping in behind that lust, and that fairytale thought you had is gone. You had reminded him, without even realizing you did it, that what happens between you this night has nothing to do with what Andy wants.

That hand grips strongly around your neck, the thumb grazing your windpipe and lodging itself under your jaw, and your head is thrown back hard against the table edge. You wince in pain as perplexing colors fill your vision, even when you shut your eyes tight. The edge is rounded and worn enough not to break skin, but holy fuck, it hurts, and you know you’ll feel it in the morning. If David wanted to see bruises he was sure as hell going to get them.

As you yelp out in pain that thumb presses down into the hollow of your throat, a silent warning to keep your grimacing mouth open. “Take it,” he says again, harsher this time, like nothing you’ve ever heard from Andy’s voice before; and against your open lips you feel the press of his cock, hot and velvet smooth, demanding entrance.

With a groan you’re not even sure comes from pleasure or pain you obey, slackening your jaw wider as Andy slides past your lips, flesh running hot against your tongue. Your hands, still up against his body and holding on for dear life, ball into fists as he fills you, takes control of the situation and the rate you’re swallowing down his length. He sounds of a grunt of displeasure above you as he bats away your hands, the powerful grip on your neck roughly informing you that your privilege of touching him is through. You hands fall to your sides, arms locked, as you moan your protest around his cock; the only things holding you up now are your trembling knees, straining from the effort, and Andy’s hand around your neck, steadying your head against the table.

He slides in inch by inch until you feel the head to his cock bump at the back of your throat; you fight your natural reflexes to gag, or even to start sucking him, begin working on him the way you know he’s aching for. It’s maddening to stay still but you wait for him, wait for Andy’s next move. Your eyes closed, your body crowded between Andy’s and the table with nowhere to move, you feel his free hand stroke your cheek, caress it, down to the crease where your lips meet with his cock. It’s so soft, so tender you think it’s an entirely different person, a different time; but you realize, without even looking into his saddened eyes, that this touch is another apology, Andy silently saying he’s sorry for what he’s about to do.

You feel him withdraw but only slightly, like the ocean waters receding before a terrifying tidal wave, about to lay devastation to its shores. Then with a grunt and a snap of his hips Andy’s thrusting hard into your mouth, merciless, his hand tilting your head back for easier access to your throat. Unprepared, you begin to choke--once, twice, your throat acting on instinct and not on the orders from your mind or your dick, both of which tell you to keep going, take him in for all it’s worth, _endure_. You know no matter how your body protests Andy will not relent.

Squeezed shut against the assault on your mouth, your eyes tear up, the body’s reaction visceral and immediate. You feel him begin a steady, grueling pace, his hips pressing into you with abandon, drawing out only just enough to thrust back in again, reluctant to leave the warm heat of your mouth. Shamelessly whimpering, you try your best to run your tongue along the shaft, curve your lips around his member and give him something proper to fuck, but it’s all you can do to keep yourself upright and not gag on the forcefulness he’s showing you. A few more thrusts, head banging against the table each time he comes in, and your lips are numb, a mix of your saliva and his precome dripping down into your beard. And _still_ you are hard all through it, surprising yourself at what makes you turned on, your cock throbbing in your jeans and begging to be touched.

Andy’s holding up more than fairly well, from what you can feel and hear: he’s making short gasps and grunts with every thrust, and he bites back a soft shout when your lips hit the base of his cock, those coarse hairs of his tickling at your nose and enveloping you in his heady scent. You doubt he’s ever let himself go like this before, allowing himself all of the power in sex without any restriction, aiming only for his pleasure. Fucking someone’s face with abandon, and no consequence. You can’t tell if his body’s trembling from the pleasure he’s finding in your mouth or the freedom of that very thought; you think it might be both.

He’s at this, thrusting so hard your neck feels like it’s getting whiplash, until his knees begin to shake, the movement of his hips growing jerky and out of rhythm. You shudder in desire and relief, knowing from the keening sounds coming from Andy’s mouth that he must be close. With daring initiative you swallow around the head, moaning all around him, feeling that familiar swell you know so well in your own cock, but not quite like this. A sudden possessive desire comes over you, and you want Andy to come knowing that you’re the one who brought him off, that you are responsible for the orgasm about to ripple through his body.

But your thoughts are greedy, and against the rules David has laid out for you both. You won’t be granted that knowledge, that satisfaction.

With a strained whine that sounds like he himself is in pain, Andy wrenches himself from you, pulling out of your mouth before he reaches his point of no return. He’s panting heavily, holding your head at arm’s length away from his cock, jerking frustratingly to return to the warm, wet depths of your throat. And amazingly you _want_ it back, your jaw already stuck open in a cramp, and you gasp in lungfuls of air as you crane your neck forward, trying once more to get a taste.

He holds you fast, knowing that he can’t give you that satisfaction, let you enjoy the encounter at all. You finally open your eyes, angry red veins pumping through the whites, teary and strained from the assault on your face. When you look up they’re pleading at him, begging for more: leniency and tenderness or ruthless passion, you don’t care which, just so long as Andy gives you more. There’s so much uncertainty in his eyes, the brown reflecting sadness and sympathy for what he’s done, what he’s _had_ to do.

“Neal,” he whispers, so out of breath you flinch. The hand’s at your face again, slowly trailing along your jaw, into the bristles of your beard, wetting his fingertips against your abused lips.

Boldly your tongue darts out to greet those fingers further, trying to pull them in, _anything_ to get Andy back in your mouth again. “ _Andy,_ ” you breathe against them, an almost beatific sigh. “Please...”

You want to think this is a turnaround, that David’s orders are over and the punishment you’ve endured is enough, but even you can’t convince yourself of this any longer. Andy tangles his fingers into your long hair and tugs from the scalp, almost pulling you airborne from the roots alone. Pain shoots from your skull and courses down your body until you’re shouting from it, eyes clasped shut, fists so tightly clamped your worn fingernails dig into your palms.

His voice is cold again when it hits your ears, and you know he’s not done with you yet. “He wanted to make sure you’d beg, too.”

With a surprising strength in his toned arms Andy throws you down to the floor; your face almost smacks into the hardwood before your arms remember how to move again, and instinctively hold you inches from the ground. The stinging pain from your scalp is barely a memory before it’s back again, Andy reclaiming his power over you, pulling at your hair and pressing your face the extra few inches down against the wood. You protest futilely, struggling against the hand at your head, but you’re resigned to your fate, one half of you knowing this is owed to you, the other half alive with excitement wondering what Andy will do to you next.

“Your pants,” he orders, pressing your cheek harder into the floor. Without allowing you to raise your head, you’ve got no other choice but to rest your weight on it, lifting up your hands to your belt buckle. It leaves you in an uncomfortable position: head against the hard wood floor, staring at Andy’s feet and the jeans he let fall to his ankles, your already abused neck curved the wrong way to accommodate for your bent back. You’re still on your knees, your ass perched in the air like doomed prey, vulnerable towards the predator just waiting to snatch you up.

It’s no better when you comply with Andy’s demand, unbuckling the belt at your waist and releasing your neglected cock from its solitude inside your jeans. Eyes closing, you breathe a sigh of relief when you feel the cold air against your cock, and you give yourself a good rough stroke surreptitiously, elated just to be able to _touch_ yourself again.

Andy kicks off his pants to be rid of them, and suddenly the socked feet in your vision disappear. But you know where he’s gone: in the next moment you feel his presence behind you, towering above your supine frame. With his one free hand he tugs your jeans down the rest of the way, pooling down at your knees, your ass exposed.

Your eyes widen though there’s no one to see it. _Oh_ , you think fleetingly, hearing Andy spit into his hand, then moan as he spreads it over the head of his cock. _So that’s where this game is going._ You bite your lip at your own moan that threatens to escape, thinking about Andy taking you, penetrating you. Every rational bone in your body tells you to fight against this, that you’ve gone too deep for simple retribution; but the _one_ other bone you’ve got in your fist is the one pushing you closer to it, making you shudder with just the thought of Andy inside you.

But a game it is, indeed, and as much as Andy is supposed to hurt you, make you pay for David’s grievance, you’re supposed to hate it. “You don’t have to do this,” you say to him, vocal chords strained from your position.

Andy leans in slow, the weight of him pressed against your hindquarters, until his lips are almost touching your earlobe. His voice breaks when he murmurs low and soft, a voice you will never forget. “You know I do.”

He nuzzles your neck, the tenderest of moments you wish you could steal away, reserve for a time other than this, when it could truly mean something between you. You feel his lips against your throat, the lightest touch, a kiss you think he’s been dying to give you this whole ordeal. “This is from me,” he whispers, and it marks the end of his tenderness, the only moment he and David will allow. Then his voice grows harsher, louder, pressing the purpose of this entire punishment home. “And this is from David Cook.”

You can’t even hold in your shout as he pushes himself into you, your ass open to him but not ready for any level of abuse. It’s Andy’s motive not to be gentle, slipping his cock into your cleft and thrusting in, burying himself as deep as physics will allow. It’s a small comfort to hear him groan above you as well, the fit none too pleasant on his already overworked, sensitive member; but you know that what Andy feels can’t compare to what you are receiving.

Making short, staccato thrusts into you, Andy finally makes his way all the way in, marked by the sigh of relief and pleasure you hear come from his mouth. You groan, frustrated with yourself, because while the intrusion is unwelcome your own hard cock is finding it’s not wholly unpleasant, and if Andy would just start to _move_ you think this would feel even better. You cannot ask it of him, wouldn’t dare now; you clench your jaw and wait, holding in your silence, for Andy to make his move.

And you swear you nearly lose yourself with relief when he finally does, Andy’s hips withdrawing only slightly to give him leverage, the next moment pushing back against you, so hard and sudden you almost pitch forward. He begins a strong and grueling pace, thrusting into you with the abandon of a man let loose, given free reign to inflict upon you whatever he chooses. His hands grip your thighs, fingers digging into the flesh, as he reaches for more leverage, a better angle to drive himself in deeper. You feel every thrust course through your entire body until every nerve is alive with sensation, good and bad, all crashing into each other, making your breath hitch and your ears ring.

“It didn’t have to be like this,” you hear Andy’s voice above you, strained, trying to hold onto sanity as much as you are. “This is all because of you.”

Even like this, the side of your face almost making a dent in the hardwood floor, Andy above you and inside you and _all around_ , you can’t take hearing those words from Andy’s voice. Now you think you would have preferred it if David came for your penance in person; you can resent him more easily. But the history between you and Andy, all that had nothing to do with the man orchestrating this encounter, keeps you from ever hating him; you can’t even blame him. “Tell that to _him_ ,” you seethe through gritted teeth.

Andy silences you with a rough, vicious thrust, his cock brushing up against something inside you that almost leaves you a crumpled mess on the floor. You feel a sharp sting as he slaps a palm against your ass; whether it’s for your insolence or for your pleasure, you can’t tell. “You’re leaving him,” he points out, a bitter tone creeping into his voice for the first time that night. Before it had just been business, the whim of a friend and boss that Andy couldn’t refuse; but now, it seems, you’ve struck something personal. “You’re leaving me.”

It’s softer but you still hear it over the slap of his flesh against yours; you still know that his voice broke at the words, struggling to get out his true emotions, why your pain had to reflect their pain. But you shake your head as best you can, adamant. This is about David, his brand, his career; not yours, and not Andy’s. “Never,” you insist, a wave of emotion suddenly washing over you, and your admission comes out more like a moan. “Not you, never.”

“Oh God...” Andy whispers, and a shudder courses through his body that you can feel. When he rolls his hips into you again, sheathing himself, it’s softer, gentler, and a coil of heat burns in the pit of your stomach. When he’s not trying to fuck an apology out of you, you think, your eyes closing in pleasure, it actually feels _quite_ nice.

A weight falls against your back, hot and comforting: Andy’s shifted his position again, curving down to press his chest against your back, pushing away your open shirt and touching as much skin as he can reach. You feel the rough stubble of his cheek in the valley of your shoulderblades, his breath steamy and slick. With a shuddering moan your hand around your cock starts pumping again, your desire replenished by Andy’s touch. Your hand’s dry but for your body’s sweat, though you don’t dare move to wet it or even stop your hand’s movements against the shaft. At any moment Andy could decide you’re taking too much pleasure from what is supposed to be a punishment; getting off quick and rough may not be your favorite, but it’s better than nothing at all.

From the panting breaths against your back, you think Andy feels the same way. He groans full on into your flesh, mouth open and full of desire, licking off the sweat and biting onto curved bone. “Close,” he rasps; the rhythm of his hips falters and breaks, stuttering into an erratic beat he cannot hold for long. “So close...”

“Fuck...” Your head aches from your position and your shoulders sag from the weight of Andy overtop you, but you manage to block it all out, the discomfort and pain, and focus on the hand at your dick. You stroke yourself furiously fast, once, twice, and soon you’re bucking like an unbroken mustang, moaning shamelessly into the floor as you spill out onto your hand. Andy must have felt the change in you, the tremors of orgasm as they ripped through your body, because he’s moaning too, soft, delicate things you could swear in some language say “Neal.”

Fighting against every muscle in your body, begging for relief and rest, you hold your position, still feeling Andy’s tight, strong thrusts into you. “Do it,” you say to him, voice thick as granite. You want to feel him explode within you, feel that body over yours shake and tremble with Andy’s own orgasm. You want him to come and know that he did it because of you. “Fuck, Andy...wanna feel you...”

Something akin to a muffled sob escapes his chest, and his fingers dig sharply into your thighs, warning you that he will not comply. Andy isn’t here to take your demands, you remember too late; anything you wish for, he cannot do.

He withdraws from you so suddenly you’re gasping form the loss; you want to reach out to him, go for the hands against your thighs but they’re soon gone, along with the warmth you felt when Andy lay on top of you. And in the next moment you know where that body has gone: crouched before you, his own cock in hand, Andy lets himself go, a dull whine in the back of his throat bottoming out into a guttural groan. He comes in hot stripes against your face, hitting your cheek and forehead, running down thickly onto your nose and chin. You’re too overwhelmed by emotion to react, to do anything but lay there and take it, fill your memory with Andy’s scent and the way he whimpers when he’s finally through.

“Don’t move,” he orders when he can finally breathe again, though his orgasm has stripped his voice of the commanding authority it had before. You agree without a nod, your body stiff as a corpse, freezing yourself in that position Andy had molded you into. You know this encounter was meant to punish, to humiliate, David’s twisted idea of retribution against his departing band member. But you still tremble from your fast memories, Andy’s demanding kiss, his forceful hands on the back of your neck, the filling sensation of his cock inside you. Apart from the bump forming on your head and the burning soreness you’re sure to feel in the morning, you’re hard pressed to come up with how this punished you.

Andy doesn’t touch you again, no sated kisses, no affectionate touches, not even an indication you’re allowed to move from your spot. The quickly cooling come on your face slides against your eyelid, and so you keep your eyes shut, blocking out the image of Andy hastily putting back on his jeans. But your hearing is acute, and you hear the jingle of his belt buckle, the dull thump of his sneakers as he nudges his feet back inside. Then there’s the shuffling of fabric as he takes something out of his pocket; the familiar chirp of the iPhone app lets you know exactly what he plans.

The phone beeps its friendly, innocuous noise until Andy’s got the settings right; you wonder why the fuck he needs to play Fruit Ninja _right now_ when a softer tone comes from the phone, an electronic noise meant to mimic the shutter closing on a camera.

“He wants proof,” Andy says, and you shiver, an uncontrollable chill coming over you at the idea of David seeing you like this, pants at your ankles, your open and abused ass aloft as you crouch on your head and knees, face covered in semen. Of course he would want to see Andy’s handiwork; of course David would never let only the bruise on your head and your best friend’s word to prove the order he gave.

Fucked in, fucked out, that was the rule, and he wants to make sure you abide by it.

Still lacking Andy’s call to move, you remain on the floor, your breaths shallow and your eyes blind, hoping there wouldn’t be more. But the creak of the door opening tells you it’s over; Andy had decided you have had enough.

He takes a deep breath you can hear even from the doorway, and you feel his eyes on you, as sad and apologetic as when he came in the door. “I love you, Neal,” he says softly, his first and last words to you this night, hoping you will remember them and not everything in between.


End file.
